


A Glass of Chlorine With a Weapon on the Side, Please

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Cute, Happy Ending, I really don't know when this is set, It's For a Case, M/M, Murder, No Timeline, Sad with a Happy Ending, john is impressed by sherlock's deductions, sorry - Freeform, they're both idiots sometimes, together for a case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23459071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has found a new case, someone who drowned in a pool water tank at a London hotel. In the beginning, it appears rather dull, but as he looks closer, it becomes clear this is a most unusual situation. It's his first case in months, and strange happenings keep popping up in the middle of the investigation. Above all else, Sherlock is doing his best to keep his feelings (not that he has those) for his flatmate out of it, but it's growing increasingly harder as the days on this case go by.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 83





	1. John, It's Time to Catch a New Killer

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! So I'm actually going to commit to this one and make it a full fledged story instead of a oneshot. It's Teen for now, I'm not sure if that will change but bear with me because I have no idea what I'm doing yet.
> 
> Updates will be slow, I'm warning you now. I hope you stick with this story though, I promise I have a vision for it. There won't be much romance in the first few chapters because I need to develop the plot first, but it will get romantic as hell.
> 
> Other than that, sit back, relax, and enjoy these two idiots in love.

“Boring!”

John stifled an exasperated sigh. The whole morning had been like this. “Sherlock, you need a case. Why not choose one of these? They all sound interesting to me.” Aside from the fact that the pair hadn’t picked up a case in a little over three months, Sherlock was dangerously close to picking up his pistol and shooting the yellow smiley face on the wall through its blasted skull again. A new case would be a wonderful distraction.

With a glare so scorching it could rival the sun, the detective replied, “They’re all boring, John! Marie Gold was stabbed to death by an ex-boyfriend, as was Kelly Atkinson, and Joshua Logan, though he was strangled as well, and the Jacqueline girl was shot, presumably her brother’s gun that her father borrowed to kill her. Stephanie Albert slipped on the side of the pool after hours and cracked her skull open on the concrete. Foul play was suspected but as usual, this is the Yard just being incompetent. No doubt they put Anderson on the job, he couldn’t deduce his way out of a paper sack. They’re all boring.”

A pause. “Right.” This time John did sigh. “What about this one, then? ‘21-year-old McKenzie Landers was found dead in a London hotel’s pool water tank, and exhibiting strange behaviours in the elevator surveillance footage minutes before death, as if worried someone was chasing her. Despite having been closed for a day while officers investigated the scene, the hotel has since reopened.’ The police ruled it an accidental death, but as we know, the Scotland Yard are often slow on the uptake.”

Sherlock’s eyes glinted with intrigue. “Tell me more.”

Smiling almost imperceptibly, John said, “Let’s see, erm, like I said, she drowned in water tank-”

“You said ‘found dead,’ before. Which is it, found dead or drowned?”

“Both. She drowned, but wasn’t found until two weeks later. And all her belongings, including her clothes were next to her in the water covered in something like sand.”

Under his breath, Sherlock cursed the hotel management for having been so clumsy. _Two weeks laying dead in a water tank, so much valuable information lost after that many days…_ Pulling himself back to focus, he asked, “Was she depressed? People often drown themselves when they commit suicide.”

“Or they throw themselves off buildings and wait years to tell everyone they’ve come back,” John muttered, not unnoticed by Sherlock. He didn’t miss the hint of rage still lingering in John’s voice. This would definitely be something brought up again at a later time, regardless of however much his flatmate protested. “She showed no signs of depression or other mental disorders, but strange drawings started appearing on her Tumblr page six months before her death.”

“Strange how?”

“It doesn’t say, really, but there’s pictures here. They’re mostly… horrifying. Disturbed.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock didn’t acknowledge the information, more as dismissed it. “And the water tank. Where was it, how was it accessed?”

“Well, that’s the strange part.” John smiled oddly. “It was on the roof. And every door leading up there was locked and alarmed, and to actually get inside the tank, you would have needed a ladder and been relatively strong. But McKenzie wasn’t found with a ladder, and she was a very petite woman.”

“History of drug use?”

“None. The autopsy showed no history of drugs at any time.”

“Hold on, there’s a video here. A clip of her in the elevator.” Offering the laptop to Sherlock, John sat down on the couch arm beside him.

The girl in question, McKenzie, appeared normal enough for the first minute, though scatterbrained. _On a trip for her university class. Tourist, not British. Likely California. Rich relatives, as evidenced by her top-of-the-line handbag, but not doing well herself. Therefore, barely keeping up with class fees. Would willingly take money from anyone, or perhaps exchange services for money… Cat lover, scratches all down her cardigan. Intelligent, working on a law degree, but superstitious. She believed she was going to die right then._

Rapidly pressing every button, McKenzie looked fearful. The elevator doors remained stubbornly open. _She’s panicking now, peering out the door every few seconds as if she’s running from someone._

Suddenly, she began gesturing, like she was speaking to someone invisible. The footage didn’t have volume, but the conversation between the girl and the air was eerie. Soon, looking frightened, she left the elevator and the doors closed like normal behind her.

Sherlock looked up from the screen. “I’ll take it.”

“Really, just like that?” John asked incredulously. “I would’ve thought you’d need a bit more goading to take on that case. Seemed pretty open and shut, now that I’ve looked at it.”

“What did you deduce from that, then?” Sherlock replied, deciding to humor him. This case was far from simple.

Coughing slightly, John said, “Well, obviously she was murdered. Someone strong and capable, likely a man. A hotel, the perfect place, since no one would care about you once you left. He dumped her in the water, and went on with his day. It could have been anybody, possibly an ex-boyfriend? Someone with a vendetta against her. Maybe she’d cheated.”

“Well done, John. As usual, you’ve missed almost everything of importance, but that’s alright. You’re at least seeing a bigger picture than the Scotland Yard is.”

A sigh. “Tell me what happened, then.”

“First, it was a very specific person. Someone who knew her intimately, but not an ex-boyfriend. She carried an expensive handbag, a gift from her aunt most likely, her parents obviously don’t support her financially and it’s too fashionable, yet vintage to be a niece. Men don’t shop for handbags, so not a gift from a boyfriend or father. Ripped jeans; not for style but because they’re old and worn out. The handbag is the only expensive item she still possessed, the rest had been pawned, clear by the imprint of a fancy watch on her right wrist. She would have kept something to remember a boyfriend by, people do that, they keep mementos. Boyfriends buy nice gifts, usually clothes. Or money to buy clothes, anyway. Landers was not particularly close with anyone, considering she was broke and barely affording her university classes.

“Second, there are security cameras everywhere in a standard London hotel, not just in the elevator. Any person up to suspicious activity would be questioned. Somehow, the killer evaded the cameras and snuck up to the roof with a ladder in tow. The door, you said, was locked at the top and alarmed, so he must have found a way to get up there with her, without triggering the alarm system.” Sherlock paused to take a breath, but John interrupted.

“Hold on, ‘he?’ Why ‘he?’”

“Statistically more likely for a murderer, combined with the fact that no common girl could lift the tank door. Or man, either, but based on body structure, it is natural for men to be physically stronger than their female counterparts. It could have been an athletic woman, but that raises several new questions if it is. The balance of probability is it’s a man. Likely in his late twenties or early thirties, considering he’d have to be able to force her up there as well. Shall I move on?”

“Not yet, Sherlock. What do you mean, ‘force her up there?’ Why not hold her at gunpoint?” John shook his head, bewildered.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, exhaling slowly. “Dear lord, what is it like in your funny little heads?” Snapping back to attention, he continued, “Yes, force her up there, he must have been a foreigner as well to have a vendetta against her. She can’t have travelled abroad, considering her financial state, and her Tumblr suggests she doesn’t know anyone. Definitely no one in London. Ergo, the murderer followed her from the United States. Now, when non-citizens fly into England, they’re screened for weapons and hazardous chemicals, as I’m sure you’re aware. With nowhere to have purchased a gun in London and no chance of bringing one from home, the killer would have relied on brute force and fear to murder her, indicating he is intimidating and in at least decent shape.”

“And what about the strange pictures and gestures in the elevator?”

“Our victim got herself a stalker. An admirer. Someone she couldn’t shake. He got in her head. It must be someone from her class, because she didn’t have friends. It would have to have been someone who knew where she was going down to the hotel name. McKenzie likely figured that in addition to her class trip, she could escape her stalker, which means he either lied about not attending or he decided last minute. The gesticulations in the elevator were her attempts to ward him off, fearing he was watching her every move. You could see on the tape how frightened she was, how she kept glancing out into the hallway to see who was there. He knew that she was aware of his presence and she knew that he knew. He’d been toying with her, dangling her life in front of her until he took it. It’s fascinating, isn’t it, how the killers get inside lesser minds…

“The murderer is not someone random, obviously, so we’ll have to assume he’s with the university. Two weeks later, they’re probably still on their school trip, and likely stuck in London until her death clears up. They’d have no chance of flying back with all this new publicity. Of course, the perfect place to do it, in a foreign country. He undoubtedly believed this wouldn’t follow him back to America, but he didn’t anticipate he’d be stuck here. If we move now, we can catch him.”

“Ten bloody years and it’s still brilliant to watch you do that,” said John, dazedly. “Watching your thoughts is brilliant. The way you get all involved in your deductions. You’re bloody brilliant.”

Against his will, Sherlock blushed minisculely. Flames flickered on the side of his face, and he turned his head away from John. “Thank you.”

A warm, bubbly feeling rose in Sherlock’s chest, ballooning up the surface. He squashed them down. There was no room for human emotions, happy or otherwise, in a case. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

Almost immediately after, Sherlock’s business persona returned. “Right. I could go into much more extensive detail, but I believe you get the gist of how complicated this situation is. John, we need to make an appointment at the hotel. Find out everything else we can. I trust you to get the name and address, and call them as soon as possible. I’ve got enough to answer the question of murder, but I need more information about the killer. I need much more to go on. Does tomorrow through next Tuesday work for you? If not, schedule it anyway.

“The game, John Watson, is on.”

A moment of thought, and then, “And we really should talk about the past few years, John, I’m sensing some repressed anger towards me. Which is understandable.”

Gaping after him, John protested, “Hang on, I’ve got a date Monday!”

Having already swept out of the room to rummage through his drawers, Sherlock called, “Cancel it! We haven’t had a proper case in months. This takes precedence.” Crashes could be heard through the house as the detective attempted to find appropriate clothing to pack. Served the bastard right for neglecting the laundry for weeks.

“And what did you mean about talking? Sherlock Holmes doesn’t ‘do’ emotions, little heart-to-hearts, the last I heard!” When no response was elicited from the other room, John sighed and set about cancelling his date. It was a shame, too, she was very attractive, and likeable. Muttering to himself about the things he does for Sherlock Holmes, the doctor pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled his newest date’s number. “Bloody hell. Right, so, erm, Alicia, I’m afraid I have to cancel Monday. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience…”


	2. They're Both Clueless in Their Own Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are arriving at the hotel. The cab ride over might prove more challenging than the actual case, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about to get angsty. You've been warned.
> 
> I'm not good at long updates, so you can expect shorter chapters like this. (Well, not exactly short, but compared to the 15k word chapters I've seen on other fics...)
> 
> Enjoy!

The fact that McKenzie had been murdered was clear as day. But the police report published in the article was so woefully short, Sherlock didn’t have the first clue as to who the killer could be. Millions of people fit the description of a twenty-something muscular man. Getting inside the hotel, scrounging around for leads would certainly get him somewhere.

Unfortunately, (though this was much more to the dismay of John than Sherlock) the only room available that met the detective’s requirements contained a single bed.

“Sherlock, would it bloody kill you to choose the one down the hall? This one’s only got the one bed!” John had exclaimed.

Having been studying the article further, Sherlock said distractedly, “We need the one closest to the elevator. I’ve been scanning the hotel layout, John, and this is the best room. I’ll sleep on the floor if I must. Or, better yet, I won’t sleep at all.”

John must have sensed there was no getting Sherlock to back down, so he sighed reluctantly and resumed booking the room.

The consulting detective had been poring over articles for hours. “It doesn’t make sense, John. Why would the police be so unwilling to release information if they believe whole-heartedly it was an accident? She wasn’t close to anyone, no one is protecting her right to privacy. Unless… the university is covering it up somehow. I must look further into that.” A sigh of frustration escaped Sherlock’s lips. He wasn’t used to being stuck on a case.

“It’s because you haven’t had one in a while, you know,” John attempted to console his flatmate. “You’re just rusty. You’ll be all over this soon enough.”

There was no response from Sherlock’s chair, just a wave of his hand and the flicker of his eyeballs back to another article. Something was off about this case, but Sherlock couldn’t put his finger on what.

It wasn’t until the following day that the flatmates checked into the hotel. “It is the Leonardo on Prescot, right, Sherlock? We haven’t booked the wrong one?”

“Yes, John.”

The cabbie didn’t turn his head for the duration of their drive, but Sherlock knew what he was thinking. Wondering why we’re going to a hotel, when we live in London already. I’m not going to bother enlightening him. Ordinary people ask so many questions, it takes all the enjoyment out of solving these cases.

With fifteen minutes still left of their ride, Sherlock searched for something to turn his attention to. His gaze landed on John, roaming over his features. The defined jawline, the storming blue eyes… John’s eyes were stunning. Sherlock felt as if he could drown in them forever. After a moment, he realised he had stopped breathing altogether. _What are you doing, you idiot? Focus on the case, not your flatmate’s eyes. You don’t have emotions, stop allowing them in._

John seemed to have noticed the staring, and gave Sherlock an odd look. Shaking his head as if to say it was nothing, Sherlock turned away and peered out the window. Pull yourself together. You are Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective of your time. You did not get there by letting in frivolous, human feelings. Now, solve this case.

Of course, as soon as Sherlock escaped back to thinking about the murder, John had to cut in and say, “What did you mean yesterday, when you said we should talk about my comment?”

 _Something about the murder… Killed before she was put in the water? Why no clothes on? Perhaps a revenge, perhaps a ritual._ “I meant exactly that, John, that we should talk about it. Was that not clear?” _Murder… rooftop water tank… strong man… no other accessible security footage. What does it mean?_

“Well, that’s a surprise, then. Sherlock Holmes, wanting to talk about feelings.”

Sherlock managed to bite back a scathing retort. _This is John. And you are in a cab. Control yourself._ Even to himself, he sounded like Mycroft. Sherlock did not wish to sound like Mycroft. “I want to talk about your feelings, not mine. There’s a drastic difference.” John didn’t appear convinced, but the detective continued, “Now if you’ll be silent for the duration of this drive, I’ve almost pieced something else about the case together.”

While he could hear John’s protests as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud, he wasn’t particularly in the mood to care. _Strange motions… meant what? Meant she was ill? Meant she was hallucinating? Ugh, meant you can’t bloody focus?_

Abruptly, Sherlock said, “Alright, John. Let’s talk.”

“But you said-”

“John, do keep up, listen to what I’m saying now. I can’t examine the case while this is lingering on my mind.” While you are lingering on my mind. “Why are you upset with me?”

Mouth hanging open, John replied, “Why am I upset? I’m not upset.”

“Yes, you are.”

He scoffed. “Alright, fine. I’m still upset because you left me, Sherlock. You died and I was without so much as a word from you for years. That kind of thing changes a person.

Ah. Sherlock had surmised as much, but it felt different hearing it out loud. “John, I could not have allowed you to know I was alive. It would have compromised your safety.” If Sherlock Holmes was a pleading man, he would have been now. Pleading John to understand. But he wasn’t, so he hoped the flick of his eyes would indicate it instead.

“I don’t care, Sherlock. I needed you. Maybe someday, I’ll be able to forgive you fully, but I can’t right now. I won’t bring it up again.”

What John needed now, Sherlock suspected, was an apology. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t receive one. Sherlock Holmes was not an apologetic man, either. Instead, he said, “It’s alright that you haven’t forgiven me. Most people don’t.”

And had Sherlock been an empathetic man, he would have recognised the simultaneous hurt and anger that flashed over John’s face, but he was not an empathetic man. Pointedly, John did not respond to that, and Sherlock sat there looking out of the cab window, wondering how on Earth their friendship had become so convoluted.

_**Shut up about John and investigate this case! You’re letting your feelings get in the way of what truly matters here.** _

_I don’t have feelings, I’m Sherlock Holmes. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. It’s right there, in the description, that I don’t feel things like others do. Likely because I’m not ordinary like them._

**_You do have feelings, you idiot. Quit letting your emotions impact your work. The obsession you’ve had over the years for John Watson is the reason you can’t get any bloody cases! It distracts you from them._ **

_I’m not going to simply cut John out of my life. He’s vital to the work we do._

**_There can’t be a ‘we’ anymore, Sherlock, he’s too detrimental._ **

_John stays!_

**_He can’t._ **

_I do not have feelings for or about John. He is simply a valuable co-worker._

**_You can tell yourself that all you like, but when it comes down to it, you care about John Watson. And that makes him dangerous and puts him in danger._ **

_He signed up for the danger._

**_If you care about him, you’d stop dragging him into this._ **

_I said, he signed up for this!_

**_Could he really refuse you? Can anyone? You know how manipulative you can get…_ **

_Shut up._

**_It’s your decision, Sherlock, but you can’t hold out on it forever. One way or another, you both will get hurt. You know that to be true. It’s because you care about him that you won’t let go of him, whether you admit it or not._ **

_Get out of my head._

**_I am your head._ **

_Precisely. Get out before I throw you out._

**_Very well._ **

When Sherlock pulled himself back to the real world, he sensed John’s concerned glance trace over him. Why couldn’t he control his own mind? Out his window was the vague outline of the hotel against the sunset. This would clear his head, and that nagging voice would be banished out of there. It was undoubtedly Mycroft’s sentiments transferred to his brain, sowing seeds of worry. Usually, it didn’t take long to be rid of them.

“Here you are, boys, the Leonardo on Prescot!” the cabbie announced, blissfully unaware of the tension in the backseat.

Sherlock stepped out without a word, leaving John to say a hasty, “Thank you,” and pay for their ride. The detective didn’t wait for John to catch up, he simply strode in the direction of the hotel doors. Frustratedly, he shook off the haunting thoughts of earlier. Be here, be now, in this case. John is your colleague. Treat him the same as you always have.

It was easy enough to get checked in at the front desk, though there was a small mix-up with the names for the room.

The receptionist at the counter obviously wanted to go home and have a nap. _The bags under her eyes indicate a long shift, and she has children, judging by the family photograph tucked behind her computer. A wife at home, likely not pleased with her staying so late. Strict boss as well; the picture is obscured quite clearly by the monitor, so the management doesn't approve of personalisations. Makes sense, considering it’s a hotel…_

John appeared beside Sherlock, panting slightly. “It’s difficult to keep up when you go running off like that.”

Sherlock acknowledged that fact with a jerk of his head.

“Do you two have a reservation?” the lady at the counter asked, in a tone of voice that meant she didn’t really care, and was annoyed by their checking in so late. John bristled, but Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him. The stiffening of the doctor’s spine as he did so did not go unnoticed by either party.

“Yes,” John replied through gritted teeth. “Under Watson.”

Sherlock had vyed for it to be put under his name, but John had flat-out refused, stating that he paid the bills and had scheduled the hotel visit. How many pointless squabbles they’d had recently. It was starting to take its toll on the both of them.

“Oh, yes, I see now. John and Sherlock Watson, one room on the third floor?” The woman had warmed up to them quickly, no doubt due to the fact she believed they were married.

Sherlock opened his mouth to correct her, when he usually wouldn’t, but John beat him to it.

“Actually, it’s John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Not Sherlock Watson.”

“Ah.” Her face fell.

As John looked confused, Sherlock mouthed, “Lesbian,” to him, and he gave a nod of understanding. Something Sherlock couldn’t place glinted in his eyes.

Despite that exchange, there was no way Sherlock could have anticipated what John would say next, but as soon as he heard the words escape John’s lips, he knew they were fucked.

“We’re not married yet, of course, but he is my boyfriend. We share a flat.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to gape at his flatmate. _Boyfriend?! What in the hell do you mean, boyfriend? Yes, we share a flat, but we have separate rooms. I am married to my work, you are not gay-_

She smiled again, finalising some documents on her computer. “That’s wonderful, the both of you. I’ve got my wife and kids at home to go back to, you know.” Trust John to appeal to the receptionist. Sherlock supposed this was an empathetic gesture rather than a ploy to get their key faster. That was just the way John’s mind worked. And Sherlock also knew John didn’t have a plan as to where to go next. He had simply not wanted to disappoint the poor girl.

Thankfully for the two of them, Sherlock was quick at thinking on his feet. “How lovely for you. I’m sure you’re eager to see them again, so if you’ll kindly give us our room key, we’ll be on our way.”

None of this interaction changed the fact that John and Sherlock were equally hurt and upset by each other. But to play the part, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and wove his fingers between his flatmate’s, attempting to conjure a pleasant expression on his face. There it was again, John’s stiffening. Sherlock didn’t have the faintest clue what that meant. _You’re off your game this week. You can always deduce down to the tiniest things about John. Why not now?_

Returning a tight-lipped smile, John received the key from the receptionist and wished her goodnight, with Sherlock leading the wall down the hall. The instant they were out of her sight, the detective released John’s hand and avoided his eye contact, merely trudging up the stairs to their hotel room.

He didn’t catch the defeated, helpless look John sent after him. For a world-renowned detective, Sherlock could be so clueless when it came to his flatmate. There would definitely be more talking later, but right now Sherlock just needed to bloody sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're both idiots, aren't they? I hope you liked this, please stick around for the next update.
> 
> And, as always, comments are much appreciated. Love y'all!! xx


	3. Sherlock Doesn't Have Feelings (Or So He Says)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 3 a.m. and I'm not entirely coherent, but I just finished writing this chapter. If there are any editing mistakes or just anything that doesn't sound in character, feel free to let me know in the comments.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Sherlock was at war with his head again. This time, it was winning. He desperately wished it wasn’t. And even more so, he wished it wasn’t right, he wished it wasn’t true that he cared about John, more than anything. More than the Work, which Sherlock hadn’t thought possible before John entered his life. 

The chair Sherlock had draped himself over was rigid and uncomfortable, but that was alright considering the detective didn’t usually notice that sort of thing. There hadn’t been a discussion, Sherlock had simply taken the chair and left John to the bed. John wasn’t about to protest, Sherlock thought, but the sigh of resignation John had emitted indicated he wasn’t pleased with the events of the day.

Sleep was not a natural state of being when it came to Sherlock Holmes. That was why it surprised him so much when he fell into deep slumber almost immediately after positioning himself on the armchair. Granted, he had awoken three hours later, contemplating the likelihood he had of upsetting John further if he left to investigate the case at this hour.

He turned his head to look at John. The man looked peaceful while he slept, showing no sign of the nightmares that used to plague him. Sherlock’s heart twinged as he glanced at John’s motionless figure, (though he didn’t have a heart, of course) and he tore his gaze away. Some  _ emotion  _ he couldn’t explain welled up inside the detective. It made him feel clammy all over, normal and human and  _ weak.  _ It was awful.

Groaning softly, Sherlock crawled to his feet and set off down the hall to search for clues, in nothing but his pajamas. Anything to get his mind off of John. Why couldn’t he focus on something, anything else?

Their room was located on the sixth floor, the one the elevator footage had been filmed on. Security cameras dotted the hallway, leading a trail of dark black circles down the ceiling. Experimentally, Sherlock walked up to the elevator doors and pressed the up button. With a creaking to rival that of dilapidated hard-wood floors, the machine opened its entrance and the detective stepped inside. In the corner was located a different sort of camera, hidden more properly. Sherlock frowned. That was strange.

The elevator carried him to the ninth floor. This was the topmost one, before the roof. Now, this bit would require some skill, to inspect the roof access without causing suspicion. The security cameras surrounded the ladder up, and there was no hope of avoiding them.

Right then was when Sherlock noticed: they weren’t real cameras at all. Every one in this hallway was a fake.  _ Of course. That’s why they didn’t show those tapes, they didn’t have any footage of the incident! Stupid, I could have figured that out much quicker. _

And Sherlock was willing to bet the alarm hadn’t been up to date, either. In such a hotel, if they were so confident in their security that they didn’t buy real cameras, they wouldn’t bother with an alarm. No, it was all about the illusion of safety, white lies to hide the real truth; the hotel had no defense mechanisms at all. It wasn’t the issue of money, just general human laziness.  _ Interesting. _

That still left the question, however, of how the murderer accessed the roof. The door up there was locked, and Sherlock even checked it. Short of picking the lock, there wasn’t much the killer could have done, unless…

_ Perhaps he had help. Someone on the inside, who gave him access. He’s a foreigner, he wouldn’t know anyone in London, so what’s a good excuse? If you really needed to get up to a hotel roof, how could a guest make that happen? _

It seemed as though Sherlock was temporarily stumped. Sherlock really didn’t like being stumped.

It was shortly thereafter that Sherlock Holmes was joined by Dr. John Watson, who looked ready to throw hands. The detective had calculated that risk, of course, but he hadn’t expected John to wake so soon. The shorter man stood in front Sherlock, silently fuming. How he hadn’t heard the elevator door open and know it was John, Sherlock had no idea.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Sherlock asked.

“I could say the same to you.”

“I don’t sleep. You do. It’s reasonable for me to up now, but not you.”

“Touché.”

Gesturing to the hall before them, Sherlock said, “I’m investigating.”

“I thought so. Didn’t think to invite me, then?” John seemed irked about that fact.

“You were asleep. I didn’t see it fit to wake you.” Something about John’s face changed at this remark, but Sherlock couldn’t place it. He never had been good at feelings.

“Well, I’m awake now. I’d like to help with this case.”

“Tell me what you make of this, then.”

“Of what?” John. Ever so unobservant. But most people were, really.

“The hallway, John. There’s secrets to be had up here, if you know where to look.” Craning his neck, John peered up at the ceiling.

“Interesting security cameras. They look a little odd.”

“Because they’re fakes. What else?”

He pondered for a moment. “The door appears guarded by alarm, as well.” John clearly didn’t believe his own statement.

Sherlock smiled vaguely. “But?” 

“The alarm system in this hotel doesn’t work. I learned that scorching the tea kettle a few minutes ago when I couldn’t sleep. Why would they give the illusion of security if it doesn’t exist?” Puzzled, John leaned against the wall.

“Because they want the people to feel safe and keep up with safety regulations. The hotel is too greedy to pay maintenance workers to keep them running, however, so they’re just for show.”

“Ah. That makes sense.” John stared at the floor stupidly, unable to form another intelligent sentence. Luckily for him, Sherlock continued his rapid-fire speaking.

“The door is locked, so the murderer had access to the key. That narrows down the number of suspects considerably, and we must ask this question: What guest can go on the roof undisturbed, and bring another person up there with him?”

Sherlock’s tone indicated he didn’t expect an answer, and so John didn’t give him one. Instead, he said, “We should go back to our room before someone catches us in the middle of the hall.”

Simply nodding abstractedly, Sherlock strode down the hallway and into the elevator. The whole situation irked him. Why was it so cloudy? Why couldn’t his mind compute? The detective barely noticed the familiarity of the armchair as he sat down inside the hotel room. Swirling thoughts pulled at his head, dizzying black spots forming in his vision.

“Tea?” John asked. “It’s 3 in the morning, perfectly respectable time for tea.”

“Fine, thanks.”

“So. We need to talk.” It wasn’t a question, but Sherlock could hear the inquiry in his statement, asking if he would cooperate.

Sherlock decided to be difficult.

Not for any reason, really, but just because he was Sherlock Holmes, and he had not slept properly in several weeks.

“What do we have to talk about?”

A glare was received from John. “Us. Our whole… dynamic. It’s shifted. I know what I said in the cab, but it’s more than that, too.”

“John, I can’t deal with this now, I’ve got the case on my mind-”

“No, you don’t.”

Confused, Sherlock looked up and over to the countertop, where John stood. 

“What?”

“You don’t have the case on your mind. You’ve spent the whole bloody night thinking about what I said in the cab, instead. It’s been haunting you since we came to this hotel. I can tell, Sherlock. You’re all bent out of shape about it.” Fuck. John Watson deserved more credit than he got, especially from Sherlock. Who knew he was so observant?

“Fine, John. We can sit here and talk about  _ feelings. _ Which I haven’t got. I’m tired and I want tea, so talk away.”

“I’m sorry.”

Well. Sherlock hadn’t expected that. Since when did John catch him off guard so easily?

“I’m sorry I spoke that way in the cab. It’s true that I can’t forgive you, but that’s because I can’t forget it. I can’t forget you, lying dead on the pavement. I can’t forget those years spent wishing and hoping and grasping at straws to make you come back. They always say you can’t forgive until you forget, so I just can’t. It doesn’t mean I don’t… care about you, Sherlock.” 

The detective realised with faint horror that John was crying. Not a full-on sob, but tears trickled down his cheeks, falling quietly against his T-shirt.

So Sherlock did the only reasonable thing he could think of. He stood up, walked over to John Watson, and embraced him. It seemed to work; John’s tears subsided, and his body stopped shaking. Sherlock could almost feel the emotion rippling off him in waves.

“This does not mean,” Sherlock said slowly, “that it is appropriate to have emotional conversations early in the morning from now on. I am not that kind of person. However, there are more things that we must discuss. I will say them now, so I do not have to bring them up again in an awkward situation.”

John nodded against Sherlock’s chest. “I know, you git. You’re Sherlock Holmes, the  _ emotionless wonder _ . So let’s talk right here, right now, and then we don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

Though Sherlock had been the one to suggest that in the first place, he felt a pang of sadness as John repeated his words.  _ Sadness. When did you become so ordinary? Feelings are better left for the normal people, leave yourself out of them. _

“John,” Sherlock started, “in the lobby, yesterday evening. What did you mean, boyfriends? Did you possibly forget that you are ‘not gay?’” The detective quoted John’s words back at him. 

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, is that what you were hung up about? I know ‘you’re married to your work’, and for your information, in case you don’t believe me, I’m not actually gay. But that woman looked so pleased when she thought we were together, Sherlock, and so disappointed when we weren’t… I thought it was harmless to humor her a little. We’ll be out of here in a week anyway, it won’t exactly make the press.”

“No,” mused Sherlock, “we’ll only have to stay together every time we see her for the next week.” Combined with a pointed glance in John’s direction, he figured he got the message across.

“Oh.” The detective could see the wheels turning in John’s mind, how he realised what he’d accidentally done. Inevitably, they’d have to keep up the charade for seven more days. “Right, then.”

But Sherlock couldn’t deny the small light inside his brain that was extinguished when John said it was only to make the woman happy. Why did it make him feel so  _ empty? _ Sherlock was beginning to really, really hate emotions. He was getting so lost in his head again, he almost didn’t hear when John spoke up.

“It’s like you don’t even realise you do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Disappear into your bloody mind. God knows what you do in there all the time. I can see you trying to shove all your feelings down a garbage chute. It won’t work.”

“I don’t have feelings. And if I did, that method would work.” Sherlock’s tone was sour, not liking how transparent he appeared to be to John. Was nothing safe from him any longer? How long had he been able to read Sherlock the same way the detective read him?

“You can keep telling yourself that, but it’s not true. I know you. I’m your self-proclaimed best friend.”

“ _ I don’t. _ ” The words were spit out like a curse.

Sherlock was thankful when John stopped pressing him, and merely stood in silence. It was then that he noticed he still hadn’t let go of John, and Sherlock quickly resumed his seated position in the chair.

“We’ve got our  _ heart-to-heart _ out of the way now, can we get on with the case?”

“Sure thing.”

Curling up on the armchair, Sherlock wasn’t expecting the firm hand grasping his wrist. Staring at John questioningly, he unfurled his limbs. John dragged him towards the bed. “You’re going to sleep in a proper bed tonight. I won’t have you neglecting your health any longer.” And Sherlock could hear it in his voice, something from their talk had loosened John up. The John he had been when they first set off solving cases together was back now, the one who always tried to get Sherlock to sleep and eat and perform basic human functions, despite his protests.

When the detective didn’t attempt to complain, (since he was too busy hiding a smirk, Sherlock Holmes isn’t  _ joyful _ ) John began to walk over to the chair.

“John. Stay.” This statement wasn’t a question either, it was a request. And Sherlock knew John always had a bloody hard time refusing him. “It’s a queen mattress, large enough for the both of us to lay comfortably.”

His flatmate dithered for a moment, but they both knew what his answer would be. “Yes, alright,” came the exasperated response as John climbed into the bed on the other side, pulling the sheets up over his body. His back faced Sherlock, and the detective thought it was much better and much less embarrassing for the next thing he was going to do.

“I’m sorry,” were the words that escaped Sherlock’s lips, ripped from him uncharacteristically. This was uncomfortable. “For everything.”

But the embarrassment of the apology was all worth it when Sherlock could almost hear the grin that spread across John Watson’s face. While he remained stubbornly faced away, maybe that was more to hide his happiness. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

It seemed Sherlock Holmes had done something right in regards to people skills, for once in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not believe the amount of research I do for this story! I swear the second I get on my computer and start typing I'm like a kindergartner, I know how to use fancy words but any knowledge of the world around me is swept out of my head and I have to look everything up. My Google search history is full of "london hotels with pools" and "where are the security cameras in a standard hotel"
> 
> Also, I don't live in London, and this hotel is based off one I saw on Google Maps for a cheap price with a swimming pool near-ish Baker Street. The case is one I adapted from an unsolved news story in California and added my own take on. There's going to factual inaccuracies. I apologize.
> 
> Expect another update sometime in the next few days. As long as I can keep staying up till 2 writing these, I should have this out in no time!
> 
> Love y'all xx


	4. Boyfriends? Boyfriends. But Only for This Case, Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long to get right. I'm sorry. Lestrade makes an appearance! Poor Gavin, Sherlock can't ever remember his name.
> 
> My chapters are getting progressively longer. There's not much consistency there.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated, and now sit back and enjoy this next update.

Waking up next to John was pleasant. It was neither awkward nor disjointed; instead, it was peaceful. There was no tangling of limbs or uncomfortable proximity to one another, as television would have you believe, only slow and controlled breathing. With the flurry of chaos Sherlock created wherever he went, it was a nice feeling to have this experience. 

Until the detective noticed his hand wrapped around John’s. This was not pleasant or peaceful, this was uncertain and frightening. Mostly for the inconvenient situation it would place them in when John woke and realised what his hand was doing. But John had made no attempt to push Sherlock away, and so the man supposed that made it alright. 

Gently prying his hand from John’s, Sherlock wrote a quick note explaining he’d gone looking for clues again and threw on his long coat to go downstairs. 

Had he stayed in bed, Sherlock knew how it would have gone down. John would have tensed, ripped his hand away, reaffirmed his complete and utter ‘not gayness,’ and any progress made last night would have been lost. For how often per day that man had a sexuality crisis, it was a wonder he’d managed to pretend he was gay for any reason. And as much as it pained to admit the depth of his feelings, Sherlock did not enjoy being without John as his best friend. It was true that Sherlock Holmes was not, in fact, a psychopath, but he wasn’t quite a sociopath, either. While it may have taken him ten years to realise it, and it was not something he could presently bring himself to say aloud, Sherlock cared about one person in the whole bloody world: John Watson.

That admittance had felt horrible. Sherlock would not be attempting to admit any more feelings any time in the near future.

Downstairs was a small cafe, and the continental breakfast offered there consisted mostly of soggy eggs, dry bread and stacks of raspberry and strawberry jelly packets. The by far less favorable grape variety had been ‘accidentally’ knocked into the garbage can in almost its entirety.

This did not faze Sherlock Holmes, for he was not eating this morning. (He had not eaten at all yesterday, either, since John had been too caught up in their rows to force him to do so.) However, to appear less conspicuous, he selected two slices of stale bread and a packet of tea. 

The tea was awful, really. John made much better tea than the rubbish served here, when he could be arsed to put the kettle on. The tea last night had been  _ superb. _ Sherlock suspected it was so because his flatmate had made it, and not for any other fantastical reasons.

What the detective was really down here to do at an early hour was to slueth. There was no better place to people-watch than a hotel cafe during breakfast hours. 

Around a large table were seated fourteen people. One was clearly their elder, by almost ten years more than the next oldest. Everyone else in the room was focused on their meals, but this party was subdued, melancholy. They picked at their food as Sherlock often did himself, disinterested but made to anyway.

So this was the university class that the dead girl had travelled with.

Naturally, it was always when Sherlock was just beginning to get involved in cases that the Yard phoned him. Annoyed, the detective answered on the last ring simply to be difficult. It was always good fun, pissing off the Scotland Yard.

“Stop interfering,” were the first words out of Detective Inspector Lestrade’s mouth.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Griffin.” He knew full well what Lestrade meant.

A sigh. Those were common between Sherlock and his associates, mostly directed towards the detective himself. “It’s  _ Greg.  _ Anderson saw you exit that cab by the hotel, and knowing you it’s to study that bloody case. That we declared two days ago was a suicide! And anyways, this case is open and shut. The poor girl got in the water tank and couldn’t get out. No other explanation.”

“Anderson!” Sherlock made a strangled, aggrieved noise. “After all that fuss he made about my not being dead, he still ratted me out. Lestrade, yet again, you see but you do not observe. That is one explanation of some of the facts. And it’s not the right one. I’m undercover, I’ve even got John Watson as my pretend boyfriend because some middle-aged lady with an obviously cheating wife working the counter was upset when he wasn’t. You won’t drag me out of this case. It would not be in your best interests.” Glancing around, no one seemed to have picked up on their conversation. Just as well. Sherlock preferred not to go shouting about while undercover.

“If the public gets wind of this… We’ve already made a statement, Sherlock! Investigating this further will make us look like bloody fools!”

“And that is different from your natural state of being, how?” 

The man knew how to push Lestrade’s buttons, and he wouldn’t stop until the Detective Inspector got off his arse about this. Sherlock had craved this case, but it was more than a craving, it was a need, an insatiable hunger to solve them. Greg Lestrade and the rest of the Scotland Yard would not ruin this for him.

“Sherlock…”

“No, Lestrade. I’m not abandoning this case. You can cover for me, you always have before.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake-” 

The detective was already hanging up as Greg protested.

_ If the Yard’s gotten wind of this, I’ve got to solve it quickly. Now think. Examine the people at the table. What do I see? _

Sherlock’s eyes flitted over the subjects in question.  _ European Studies majors, abroad from the U.S., thirteen students and a…thirty-four? thirty-five-year-old professor. Young, intelligent obviously. A camera slung around his neck, photographs of their trip for the university. Sociable and well-liked. _

_ Five of thirteen are not physically capable of the job. Two students in a relationship and another two friends with benefits. Could be cheating, but not romantic, would’ve been purely sexual. Ten knew McKenzie personally and eight mourn her. Three others who don’t mourn are in a state of shock and uncomprehending of the situation to do so, and two are childhood rivals.  _

_ Childhood enmity, possible solution. One a tall boy with a large-enough build, even if skinny, and the other a shorter girl, an athlete. Both capable. _

_ The boy… quiet, not a lot of friends, but no burning anger in him either. Slow rage at a slight in the past. Would faint at the sight of blood. Too positive-minded to kill her. The girl, hot-tempered and explosive, doesn’t like people. But too much of a perfectionist to get her hands dirty, and too short to reach the top of the water tank. _

_ Grief can be easily faked, but no one seems suspicious. Back to the professor, then. He’s the only suspect left. Unless I’m wrong about the whole endeavour… _

_ No. I know my mind and my mind is never wrong. It is someone on that university trip. The professor, physically strong enough but perhaps not mentally, empathetic.  _

Breaking Sherlock’s train of thought seemed to be the new, popular extreme sport. This time it was John again, pulling up a chair at the detective’s table. Reflexively, Sherlock grasped John’s hand and looked at him with a thin smile.

“John Watson, from now until I solve this case, you are my boyfriend.”

“Hang on, I thought you minded me saying so-”

Sherlock shushed him. Quietly, he continued, “I need an excuse to investigate in public spaces such as these. From experience, I am looked upon much less skeptically if I bring a date. People open up much more quickly to a seemingly happy couple.”

A glare. And a look of confusion hidden underneath.  _ I’ve brought dates to crime scenes, John. Just not real ones.  _ “It was one thing for the woman at the desk, but another to make it my full time job,” John protested.

“Please.” The word hung in the air, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“Fine. As long as you don’t kiss me.”

“Of course. Now shut up and smile as if you are infatuated with me.”

John did his best, which was surprisingly convincing considering the man was by no means a good actor. He glanced at Sherlock’s toast and jelly inquiringly, and stole them off the plate when the detective nodded in resignation.

Rather than return his gaze, Sherlock looked slightly to the left of him and resumed watching the people at the next table.  _ Professor, professor, professor, where was I? Ah yes, empathetic. Yet shifty. Cares about all his students but doesn’t trust them. Could that be enough to murder one?  _

_ Hmm, her. I didn’t rule her out.  _ His attention shifted to a taller girl, secluded from the table.  _ Alone, in mourning but not angry, nor in denial. Most people pass through the stages of grief slower. Physically strong, definitely, and looks like she’s got something to hide. Perhaps a murder to hide. _

_ This is all speculation. I need to speak with them. _

“John, come with me,” Sherlock hissed in his ear as he stood abruptly, dragging his flatmate across the cafe. John barely had time to set the toast he’d been spreading jelly onto back down on the plate before he was standing in front of the table.

The detective approached the group timidly, placing a mask over his usual personality. Finding information was all about giving a sense of security, and even Sherlock knew that his self was annoying, loud and harsh, often driving new people up the wall.

“Excuse me, does anyone know if there is a swimming pool in this hotel? My partner and I have had a long trip.” Sherlock nearly kicked John in the back of his foot as he stared.  _ Yes,  _ he could pull off a convincing American accent. He could also do Australian, German and Spanish. It was not a big deal.

He was more interested in people’s reactions to the question. If they were not guilty, there would be sadness or possible anger in their eyes, but if so… panic would be the prominent emotion expressed. Sherlock enjoyed this part of the game very much, where he could read the suspects like an open book.

_ Eleven not guilty, three up in the air. The tall girl, a blond kid and a tough-looking, skate-boarding boy.  _ Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock focused on the second student.  _ Perhaps just naturally suspicious, nothing particularly off about him. Something’s missing, a piece of this isn’t right… _

“There’s a pool on this floor,” said one of the students flatly. “You can’t miss it if you follow the signs. It’s closed right now, though. Maintenance issues.”

_ Maintenance issues my arse. _

“Thank you, sir.” Sherlock made sure to include the tiniest hint of disappointment in his response. This next bit had to be timed exactly right. Sherlock ‘slipped,’ falling forward into the tall girl, and amid the chaos that ensued directly after, the detective retrieved a ballpoint pen from her back pocket. With luck, she hadn’t noticed that. Carefully pocketing the item, Sherlock reached to pluck the cell phone from the blond kid and a loose ring from the skate-boarder. His mission complete, he staggered to the floor as John attempted to hold him upright.

“You alright, mister?” one asked.

“Fine, fine, yes.”

“Bloody hell-” John started, as Sherlock intentionally sagged under him.

Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly, eyes flaring. They were supposed to be  _ Americans!  _ This time John was kicked by the detective, and luckily he understood. No one had seemed to pay any attention to anything other than the fact that a complete stranger was now lying on the ground like a fool.

“Terribly, terribly sorry,” exclaimed Sherlock, still in the rich American accent as John helped him up. All three pickpocketed objects were carefully stowed in the folds of his coat.

Half-hearted glares were sent after him as Sherlock hobbled away towards the elevator, making a point to keep his limp until out of sight. Once out of the hall, he reached into his coat and pulled out the items, taking care not to wipe them clean.

“And what in the bloody hell is that?” John asked incredulously. “You almost dragged me down with you to get them, you know.”

“No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t have let you fall.”

Sherlock could see from his expression that John didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered by this statement. He left John to decide for himself.

“That was entirely unconvincing, wasn’t it? The bit where we were supposed to be boyfriends?” John remarked.

Shrugging, Sherlock replied, “The Americans bought it.”

“They also bought your accent.”

Offense bloomed on the detective’s face. “I have perfected several regional accents after being abroad quite a bit, including seven different English dialects, thank you.”

“It was rubbish.”

“That’s simply how Americans speak to each other. All timid-like.”

John scoffed. “A koi fish sounds more like an American than you did with that accent.”

Sherlock attempted to find a sharp answer to that and failed miserably. So he decided to just stay silent.

“So, why did you take them?”

The detective sighed his  _ John, don’t be stupid  _ sigh. “To test for fingerprints, John, why else? Surely there will still be prints on the door and the wall leading to the roof. This hotel isn’t the cleanest in the world.”

“Oh. So you think it’s one of them, then? The students?”

“Obviously.”

“Right.”

The elevator door dinged open, and the pair walked back to their room. Sherlock pointedly opted not to answer John’s loud questions; though they were not spoken, they rang in Sherlock’s ears like sirens.

Sherlock would test them each during the night, away from the hustle and bustle of a common hotel day. For now, he retreated to his designated chair and pondered. He pondered until his mind went on the fritz, buzzing and attempting in vain to compute the new developments. Three suspects and days to solve. It should have been easy. But none of them seemed to match, no deduction seemed completely right. Sherlock groaned in frustration, staring up at the ceiling as if it would fix this. 

And what was John Watson’s deal? He was fine playing gay for cases but the moment someone suggested it in real life, he clammed up. The slightest brush of a hand when they were out in public caused John to freeze. Was he so insecure in his heterosexuality that he couldn’t take it as a joke? Wasn’t that what people did?

Sherlock simply didn’t understand. He supposed that was his problem: he didn’t understand the nuances of human emotion.

But he understood one thing. It was painful to see John so stiff and cold around him, as if someone had turned off the switch that made him open and caring. It was painful to know that John was so averse to being seen that way with Sherlock that he avoided the man altogether sometimes. And Sherlock had not the faintest clue why. It had never been an issue in his mind, and so he accordingly didn’t correct people who mistook them as boyfriends. Why waste time arguing about pointless emotions with pointless people?

Sherlock’s head spun. The vertigo had come back, and he closed his eyes, pressing his hands to his temples. He needed a distraction.

A quick listen told Sherlock that John had begun taking a shower. With no one around, the detective rummaged through his bag and dug out the nicotine patches he’d been trying to quit. Quitting drugs wasn’t a thing Sherlock Holmes did, however, and so he reclined comfortably in the chair after applying. This was, after all, cumulatively a three-patch problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My weekend was a blur, I barely wrote at all. Of course I did all of this on a Monday night. But it's alright, I'm not in school anyways. How is everyone dealing with quarantine? Make sure to stay safe and stay healthy.
> 
> Love seeing all your comments! I definitely would not have continued my venture into writing fanfiction if it hadn't been received so well. I know there's not a lot of you yet but boy, reading the insightful things you comment is better than a large audience with nothing to say. Thanks for sticking around!
> 
> Love y'all xx


	5. Save Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm apologising in advance for this one.
> 
> It is very angsty, especially at the end, but I swear it will have a happy ending. You've been warned.
> 
> (Please read anyway! I thrive off of kudos and comments.)

Shout. That was what Sherlock wanted to do. Scream at the confusion dwelling in his head. The detective didn’t like confusing situations, he much preferred to deduce his way out of them, but this was one he couldn’t.

It was all John’s fault. John was the most confusing thing in the whole world, more so than the unsolved cases, even more so than Sherlock’s own mind. Whenever John was near, a murky fog was laid over the detective’s abilities to observe, rendering him useless. This case should have taken an hour to solve, with fifteen minutes to analyze the suspects. It had now been upwards of three days.

His mind hadn’t shut down this way in the past. Before, John had been a help instead of hindrance.

But Sherlock kept dragging his thoughts back to the curve of his jawline, the subtle cheekbones underneath soulful, determined eyes, the raw emotion highlighted in them when John talked passionately.

_ What in the hell is wrong with you? Pull yourself together. _

That neatly trimmed hair that fell into place just so, the crinkle around his eyelids when he smiled as he only did in the company of Sherlock…

**_Isn’t it obvious, Sherlock? You’ve developed an infatuation with the man._ **

_ I don’t get infatuated with people. _

**_He isn’t people. He’s John. And deep down, you’ve always been infatuated with him. What did you think was happening every time he smiled at something you did and you shut down momentarily?_ **

_ John is my friend and my flatmate, but I don’t wish for a romantic relationship with him. If you’ve nothing useful to say, go back to the corner of my mind you belong in. _

**_Your friend? Earlier on in this case alone, he was your ‘acquaintance,’ according to you. You have feelings, Sherlock, deeper feelings than you’d care to say, and you need to admit them to yourself._ **

_ Maybe John is the closest person to me. And maybe I do care about him a great deal, regardless of the weakness and sentiment involved. That does nothing to change the fact that I still do not wish to partake in romantic activities between the two of us unless required for a case. _

**_But you do, Sherlock, you want to hold his hand and whisper in his ear and pull him in ever so gently for a sweet kiss, grab his hair and kiss him harder, you want to walk down the street and be able to tell everyone you pass that this is Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s bloody Hospital, your flatmate, best friend, life partner and saviour, and he is all yours, forevermore…_ **

_ Shut up! I don’t need you meddling in my head! _

**_How many times, Sherlock? You know already that I am your head. We just had this argument yesterday._ **

_ Really? Because you sound an awful lot like my good-for-nothing, meddling brother. _

**_That’s since you don’t want to listen to yourself. You never listen to your brother, why start listening to your head? This voice is Mycroft’s because you made it so, Sherlock, but really you’re fighting yourself again, desperately trying to tell yourself these nightmares of feelings aren’t real. Just like your brother always said, you were the emotional child. Those feelings are still there if you know where to look…_ **

_ Fuck off. _

Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, shaking after banishing his subconscious from his mind, when John walked in with nothing but a towel around his waist.

So much for disregarding his mind.

The truth was that John was a stunning work of art. Sherlock had heard the saying “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” but he had never beheld such beauty as the man standing in front of him right then. 

Possibly, Sherlock Holmes was very much attracted to John Watson. He had not one utter clue what to do about it. It seemed as though the more experience Sherlock had with emotions, the more irritated and bewildered he was by them. This attraction made no logical sense, but it burned in the detective’s mind like smoldering embers, fading in the background slightly yet ever present. 

The moment of escape from reality was shattered almost instantly, however, because Sherlock had become so mesmerised by John that he forgot to pull his sleeve down.

“What,” said John, his tone dangerously low, “in the bloody hell, is that?”

At least Sherlock had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. 

“Christ, Sherlock, you said you were quitting! You promised! And here I find you with three nicotine patches on a case. Why?”

_ Why? Because it appears I’m infatuated with you and I want to kiss you quite badly, and you’re driving me insane. _

“It was a three-patch problem.”

“Bullshit. There’s something else on your mind.”

“John, it would be unwise to continue this topic of conversation.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed briefly, then were lowered back down to his hands in his lap.

“Right, sure, you’re using again, there’s clearly more to it than this case, and I’m supposed to sit quietly on the bed and let you? I don’t think so.”

A sharp breath. “I’m going out. Don’t follow me.” He swept out of the room, sweeping on his coat, the collar turned up around his cheekbones and all, leaving a puzzled John to sit on the bed alone. 

_ John pretty can’t breathe three patch using angry frustrated sunshine rain clouds beautiful John upset hurt can’t know infatuated unwise quiet silence illuminate groan pop stunning noise hurt can’t focus everything loud bright overwhelming spinning in my head John I need you John help John plEASE JOHN- _

_ Rational. I am calm and rational. John almost found out my secret, but he didn’t. I am fine. I am safe. _

Sherlock slowed his breathing until it returned to normal. He despised his apparent dependence on his flatmate. Had this been the case all along? The detective had always said love was human error, but he felt something like affection pricking at the corners of his mind, a constant reminder that John Watson was a human worth loving.

He stepped into the elevator, lost in thought.

“Hi, there,” said a voice behind him. It was the young university professor, the camera still hung around his neck and a smile on his face. “We met briefly in the cafe earlier.”

_ Was married, but divorced her, recently too. Weary from the days of this trauma, having trouble keeping up with his students. A smoker trying to quit, but not succeeding. Prefers to write by hand rather than type. Old Converse, but one of the laces has been replaced, it is quite new. Wearing a single earring, like a memento. Of who? _

So he could still read people perfectly well. It was only solving the case where his mind got hung up…

_ Of course! I need John’s input. It always helps me to hear what John has to say on the matter. I’ll get the prints and get back to the hotel room. That must be what has been wrong all this time, not having John’s opinion- _

It was then that Sherlock realised he had not answered. “Hello,” he said curtly.

“Funny how British you sounded just then!” the man laughed.  _ Jason Keely, school-issued identification and key card pinned to his jumper.  _ “Thought you were an American.”

Immediately, the detective saw his mistake. “I am,” he replied in a shaky accent, “but I’ve spent so much time in England lately, it must be wreaking havoc with my voice.”

“It’s alright, man. What brings you to London? Work trip? That’s why I’m here.”

Sherlock shrugged off the familiarity the guy expressed in his tone and said, “Vacation. My boyfriend and I,” this gave him a little thrill to say, and he squashed it down a second later, “are on holiday from… Oregon.” He had simply picked the first state that popped into his head.

“I’m just across the state line in California! Where in Oregon?”

“...South.” Sherlock had no bloody clue what counties in West Coast states there were. It wasn’t a topic brought up often, even among American clients.

“I’m from North California, small world!”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock vaguely.

The detective had never been more glad to get off an elevator. “Afternoon,” he said, noticing a second too late that this was the top floor. Which meant the teacher was also getting off here. Sherlock pretended to walk the opposite way until Jason disappeared into a room, then he headed back and examined the wall by the roof entrance.

Procuring a fingerprint powder, brush and tape from the folds of his coat, (which John had questioned on many an occasion) Sherlock lifted prints from the metal rung of the ladder leading up to the roof. Thankfully, the killer had been stupid enough to not wear gloves. He pulled out the pickpocketed items as well, and dusted them for fingerprints.

When finished, Sherlock laid the four prints in a line on the generic-patterned hotel floor. None of them matched. Sherlock scowled. This was not ideal.

Rearranging them, the detective peered at the pieces of tape from a different angle. Nothing.  _ You fool! It wasn’t any of them who murdered her. Doubtful that anybody else has gone up there, which means that the killer is someone else. _

“Sherlock, how many bloody times am I going to find you up here? You’ll have to clean up that mess or someone will catch on.”

The detective gazed at John, backlit by the lights strewn down the hall, standing next to him. He followed his stare down to the powder spotting the carpet. “Yes, I shall have to do that.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I know you don’t exactly do feelings, but I wanted to apologise. I know how hard it is for you to quit one of your many bad habits.’

_ Oh, John, if only you knew the battles I fight with feelings on the daily.  _ “It’s alright.”

And then, a forced, “I apologise as well. I was rude and uncalled for.”

“Yes, well, you just described half the interactions I have with you. I’m used to it.” Well, that felt like a punch in the face, coming from John. Sherlock decided not to comment. What angered him was that the statement was true.

Sherlock carefully pocketed the samples again. “John, I need you to tell me what you think of this whole case. I haven’t been able to wrap my head around it, and I realised it’s because I haven’t heard your input.”

“My input? I’m not a genius like you, Sherlock.”

“That’s exactly why I need it!” For Christ’s sake, couldn’t John understand why this would be helpful? “I need an outsider’s opinion. Who would murder a 21-year-old girl? You met all the suspects yesterday.”

“Well…” John hesitated. “Someone with a close connection and not a good one. This is emotion-based probably, someone capable of taking a life and covering it up well. And someone with an excuse to do everything in plain sight.”

“Hmm. Thank you, John. As usual, you’ve said almost nothing of importance, considering we already knew that, but your point about a bad connection is a good one. It was someone she knew secrets about. So, rather than find another way to shut her up, they killed her.” Sherlock mused, giving John a rare smile.

John looked as if he didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended for that comment. “Right, then. If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.” 

Biting back a, “ _ Why would I need you?”  _ Sherlock began to puzzle some more over the case. But then John’s lips grazed over his cheek, and Sherlock sat bolt upright, every nerve, every sense heightened, his body trembling from the infinitesimal touch. The things John did to him.

Sherlock had given up controlling his reactions to John’s unintentional flirting. (It was unintentional, right?) Flashing him a confused look, the army doctor slipped inside the elevator and the doors closed before Sherlock’s anguished face could be seen.

_ Holy fuck. _

And just like that, Sherlock’s brain was activated. Thoughts spilled out of him rapid-fire, falling out into the expanse of his mind like a split-open sack of flour. It felt as it always had before, yet raised to a new level simultaneously. Flames raged in his mind, lighting the coals of deduction. Perhaps that was a touch flowery of a description, but Sherlock always had been a drama queen.

_ Not the girl, not the other boy, not any of the students at all, no. Therefore, the murderer must be the professor, but how did he do it? The signs are all there; he carried a camera, some hotels, including this one, allow photographers roof access. He could have carried her in a bodybag and passed it off as supplies. McKenzie must have been strangled then, since she would have been dead before she was put in the tank. Being left in the water so long would have faded the ligature mark. How? Oh! His shoelace, only one had been replaced, so he strangled her with his old one and disposed of it. He’s a tall man, strong enough, he could have brought her up to the top of the roof with a ladder and shoved her in the tank. No one would have suspected a thing. The security cameras lining the halls are all fakes, as I deduced earlier, meaning the only footage the police possessed was of the elevator, where she was evidently running from him and likely praying to God to save her, based on her conversation with no one. He’s a quiet, unassuming guy, easy to blend in with a crowd. No one would have been looking for a sweet man like him. That leaves only one question: Why? _

Sherlock was interrupted from his deductions by a drawling, familiar voice. “I thought I’d find you up here, dusting for prints. I thought it would take less time for you to catch on to my plan. I’m disappointed, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Jason.”

“You know my name. I’m flattered. Is that one of your party tricks as well?”

“No, not at all. I simply read your identification.”

A laugh. “So, you know by now that I killed her, that much is obvious. You’re not the only one that can read people, Sherlock. I’ve known who you are since the first day you set foot in this hotel.” Jason grinned, flashing his teeth. “How come it took you so long to find me?”

_ Human error. No, not an error. Caring about John Watson is not an error. Human mistake.  _ “I’ve been having an off week.”

“No, you’ve been hung up about your fake boyfriend who you wish was for real. I see more than you realise. For an American, I think I’m doing a stellar job outsmarting Sherlock Holmes. Love is a weakness, Sherlock, you of all people should know that.”

The detective scoffed. “I don’t love John.”  _ Yes, I do.  _ “I’m having an off week.”

“The time’s been ticking, and it’s run out. Tick, tock!” Jason laughed gleefully.

_ It’s an American Moriarty with sloppier mistakes. Fascinating.  _ “What’s run out, then?” Sherlock asked.

“Your time.” 

And Sherlock’s been so distracted with his wit that he hadn’t watched the hands, the hands that pulled a cord around his neck in a solid, swift movement, tightening and suffocating the detective.  _ Idiot! You saw this coming! Why else would he have come to talk about it?  _

He hooked his fingers underneath the rope, trying to pull it away from his skin, but it was in vain. Jason pulled tighter, stronger, and Sherlock began to succumb to the black overtaking him. It was being shot all over again, but this was a longer struggle, a stuttered gasp for air not received. He choked down small breaths of oxygen, head spinning and searching for something to ground him. Scrabbling at the floor, Sherlock closed his eyes and surrendered to the agony encompassing him. In his last stream of consciousness, he distinctly heard a tortured shout from none other than his blogger. A ghost of a smile painted his lips. 

_ John has come to save me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit got real in this one. Thanks for continuing to read and I'm so sorry for leaving it on a cliffhanger.
> 
> More Google searches I did for this fic that will have the FBI knocking on my door: "what are good ropes for strangulation" and "ways to get fingerprints"
> 
> What are your thoughts? Should this be rated M instead of T? Why or why not? (I genuinely don't know which one to pick, please help)
> 
> Love y'all xx


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a nice, short chapter today! I think that making this update any longer than it is would have detracted from the story. Sorry if you were hoping for another 3 or 4k words! 
> 
> This one is possibly more angsty than the last one but also incredibly sweet so read at your own risk. 
> 
> I'm almost to the end of this fic, but there will be a few more chapters. Probably two.
> 
> Enjoy!

_ Gasp.  _

**_Swirling._ **

_ Help. _

**_Dancing._ **

_ Wheeze. _

**_Silhouettes._ **

_ Heave. _

**_Flicker._ **

_ Choking. _

**_Fall._ **

_ Breathe. _

**_Pitch-black._ **

_ Save me. _

**_Easy._ **

_ Inhale. _

**_Shaking._ **

_ Exhale. _

**_Unsteady._ **

_ John. _

**_Let go._ **

_ John! _

**_Let yourself go._ **

_ JOHN! _

**_Capitulate._ **

_ Must stay alive. For John. _

**_No. Give in…_ **

“You’re not dead yet, brother mine.” Mycroft. “Focus on your throat. You’ve been ligature strangled, there will be a mark left. Can you breathe? Do you have control over your limbs?”

A slow, shuddering breath. Sherlock’s hand reached up to touch his neck, brushing over the line left over from the rope. He still retained control over his senses.

“This is not like being shot, Sherlock. This time, you have to keep breathing. Inhale and exhale.” Molly’s concerned face swam in his head, blurry and vague but still present. “You must take in oxygen.”

Rasping gulps of air filled the detective’s lungs.

“Let go of yourself, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s taunting sneer expanded throughout his mind. “Things are so much better when you’re  _ dead. _ ” 

Desperately, he shoved it away. Breathe. In and out. Keep breathing. His throat was raw, shredded from the inside. The mark left on his neck stung to touch.

“Sherlock. Don’t die on me.” John’s pleading face startled Sherlock. He sucked in more air, reaching out for his flatmate. “Please. Please stay with me.” The detective had only ever heard him beg like this once before. It was agonising then, and it was agonising now. 

_ It’s just in my head. He’s alright. I’m alright. We’re alright.  _

“John.” The word was a blessing and a curse, barely a whisper but loaded with so much emotion, emotion Sherlock hadn’t known or ever wanted to discover existed.

And his blogger’s arms were encircling him, pulling him to his chest, and it wasn’t in his head, and Sherlock felt so  _ comforted  _ in John’s embrace. Sherlock knew one thing about the solar system; John was the sun and the detective revolved around him. 

Tears ran down John’s cheeks, thick drops that he tried in vain to hide. Sherlock’s unflappable projection of serenity cracked in two when he saw it. Calm, collected John, crying over Sherlock. It was then that he knew just how much John Watson loved him back.

Jason lay motionless opposite Sherlock, a gun wound to his head and another to his heart. John, evidently, had taken no chances.

The detective and his blogger were both a mess and lying on top of hotel carpeting, a rope and several scientific instruments strewn around them, a dark pool of blood spilling out from the dead man’s head, John’s pistol haphazardly thrown on the ground in an attempt to reach the detective faster, but Sherlock had eyes only for John. John, who was always there. John, who put up with his narcissism and disregard for proper human behaviour. John, who had saved him countless times. John, who had shot a cabbie for Sherlock on their first case together. John, who shot another person today to keep Sherlock safe.

Trembling, Sherlock curled into John’s arms further. His throat burned like all hell, but he tried to speak anyway. “John, I-”

“I know.”

Those two words were enough. The detective understood John perfectly. 

Sherlock wasn’t saying ‘I care about you,’ or even ‘I love you,’ though he truly did, and John wasn’t receiving it that way. The pair knew each other far too well for that. Sherlock was saying ‘thank you. Thank you for being you. Thank you for saving my life in countless ways. Thank you for loving me when no one else would.”

And that, to the both of them, meant more than anything else.

John pulled Sherlock closer, and the detective, too, wept. He hadn’t cried since he was a child. But sobbing into John’s shoulder without giving a damn what anyone thought of him seemed so  _ right…  _

Flashing spots appeared in Sherlock’s line of vision, blurring out John’s wonderful, concerned face.  _ So this is what it feels like to faint. I don’t much care for it. _

He was vaguely aware of John dialling 999, and then Lestrade to come get him. It was alright. Everything was all right. Sherlock would pull through.

He had to. He couldn’t leave John a second time. And Sherlock knew John knew that. The both of them were counting on Sherlock’s willpower to keep him alive. He had jumped off a building and survived a bullet wound for John Watson. 

A strangling couldn’t be much harder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much for reading, I write these stories for you all! It's so incredibly amazing to see people appreciating my work.
> 
> A special shout out to @PatPrecieux is long overdue, thank you for being my #1 supporter in the process of writing this fic. I struggle with writing long pieces, including ones I have great ideas and a plot for. This is only the second thing I've written in the past few years that made it past 10,000 words. It's a huge milestone for me. Your comments are always so lovely and thoughtful, and you constantly inspire me to keep writing, even if I'm not thrilled with how it's coming out. It's important to connect and care for each other during these times, and reading your comments every day gives me that sense of connectivity, even though I don't know you in real life.
> 
> Again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all. It's as those PBS shows always say: this was made possible by viewers like you.
> 
> Love y'all xx


	7. A Happy (Almost) Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves!! This took me forever to write, I apologise for that. It's the second-to-last chapter, so there'll be one more after this one.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this if you've been here a while and thanks for reading if you've just stumbled upon it. Hope you like it and I hope you like the ending! (Which I haven't actually written because I don't do much planning out in my stories before I post them) 
> 
> All of my writing pieces are like my children and I'm proud of them, but I may love this work the most (don't tell the others!!)
> 
> See you in as soon as the next chapter comes out, enjoy!

The experience of waking in a hospital bed was becoming altogether too familiar. Sherlock’s eyelids lifted reluctantly, scanning the room. What was not familiar, and not entirely welcome was Mycroft standing in the doorway, leaning on his umbrella as if it provided him emotional support.

“I see you’ve found yourself in trouble again. Seems to be a daily activity for you of late. Good thing you keep a blogger on hand, brother mine.” The detective could smell where the sneer should have been in Mycroft’s voice, and started a bit when he realised there was none.

Opening his mouth with a snarky reply, Sherlock coughed quietly as no sound came out. His vocal chords ached with a passion, burning him up from the inside. Stinging scratches lined the inside of his throat as he rasped.  _ Well.  _ He wasn’t used to not talking. It was basically his trademark; sit and people-watch, then deduce them to pieces. Frustratedly, the detective closed him and sent a glare in his brother’s general direction.

_ What are you doing here? _

The message seemed to get across, (the brothers always had been good at reading each other) for Mycroft replied, “I worry about you. Constantly.”

_ Seems a bit feeling-sy. I thought I was the emotional child. _

“You were.” The elder brother sighed, his brow knitting. “However, on occasion, I can be prone to small lapses in my aloofness.”

_ Remind me to record you saying that when I’m out of this hospital bed. _

“For blackmail purposes?”

_ Obviously. _

An odd, extremely-Mycroft smile spread over his face. “I’m inclined to believe you’ll change your mind in a moment.”

From behind his brother stepped a very familiar and very welcome figure. John smiled ever so slightly, meeting his gaze, and Sherlock became acutely aware of how ridiculous he looked. Half-dead, a long bruise spanning his neck, and wearing an oversized hospital gown, on the verge of either laughing or crying. 

“I’ll accept your words of thanks in email or text format,” Mycroft drawled as he swept out of the room, umbrella twirling in his hand. “Whichever works best.”

Sherlock looked at John inquiringly. 

_ Why would I thank him? _

“He let me in here.” 

It appeared John could read Sherlock just as well. This notion sent chills down the detective’s spine, but not a frightening sort of chills. No, it was the sort of chills that drove Sherlock crazy with longing to touch John, kiss John, tell John how deeply he cared. Perhaps two months ago he couldn’t have, but now there was nothing more in the world right then that he wanted.

“They tried to stop me,” John continued, “because it’s meant to be family-only, but Mycroft pulled a few strings. Alright, a lot of strings. It’s bloody helpful sometimes, you having the British government for a brother.”

_ You should put that on a T-shirt. _

John cracked a smile at this, his attempts to hide the smirk coming up fruitless. 

“Also,” he said more hesitantly, “‘friend’ wouldn’t cut it with the medical staff. They demanded that only family could see you now. Bloody London hospitals… Mycroft had to say we were married, so they would let me in here immediately.”

_ That bastard. He knows, fuck, he knows how I feel about John, that’s why he did it, that’s what he’s been doing all along, trying to set us up, love is a weakness, why did you ever get yourself involved- _

Sherlock felt John’s inquisitive stare on him, and he retreated out of his head. At least he could still block some thoughts from his flatmate. That was a comforting thought.

Rather than dismiss it, Sherlock chose to acknowledge it instead. 

_ All of England is under the impression that we are anyways. Why not advertise it in our medical records? That way we can be here for each other if this happens again. _

“Coming from a different person, who wasn’t a complete berk and Sherlock bloody Holmes, that would be a nice sentiment. However, I suspect you only want that for the tax benefits.”

Though John’s tone was good-natured, it still cut deep into Sherlock. Did his flatmate truly believe he didn’t care?

_ Naturally. Though I stand by what I said. _

His blogger softened. “I was trying to be here when you woke up.” John sounded so hurt, so upset that he wasn’t allowed. “They wouldn’t let me. It takes your brother an unholy amount of time to pull enough strings to allow me in.” 

_ It’s alright. _

A pause. 

_ It’s enough that you’re here now. _

John smiled a real, full smile then, laughing softly. “I think it’s about time you stop putting yourself in mortal peril to prove you’re smart, yeah?”

Sherlock sent him an amused glance.  _ What’s the fun in that? _

“Sherlock-”

_ I can try. But in my line of work- _

Somehow, John managed to interrupt him. “Certainly not while you’re recovering, at least. If you can’t speak, you can’t be out solving cases. I’ll tie you to the bed if I have to.”

Colouring slightly, Sherlock nevertheless replied as smooth as ice.  _ That can be arranged, Doctor. _

John spluttered a bit at this. “You twat, your flirting is not subtle, nor is it good!”

_ The colour of your cheeks would say otherwise. And anyway, I don’t flirt. I’m married to my work. _

“Yours as well. And perhaps you’re forgetting I’m an essential part of your work.”

_ Are you admitting you wish to marry me, Doctor Watson? _

“No, I’m not actually gay.”

_ We both know that’s not quite true. _

“If you keep quoting Moriarty at me, it will be!”

_ Point taken. _

Somewhere along the way, John had caught on to Sherlock’s feelings. And as John had held him, crying, in a hotel hallway, Sherlock had understood the extent of John’s. Right now, he was simply reaffirming it.

Sherlock has missed this, the back-and-forth on the daily, the banter exchanged in good spirits. These are the moments Sherlock feels most alive. He doesn’t experience that feeling very often, the feeling of being alive and in the moment. It’s usually hidden along with the countless other repressed feelings, bottled up and stored inside his massive brain, where they may rot for all eternity.

It seems as if they may all be resurfacing in light of recent events.

Some may think it strange, the ability the pair have to carry on a conversation when only one party is speaking, but both Sherlock and John are used to this. Sherlock, often lost in his mind, would reply to his flatmate with the jerk of a hand or the twist of his head, indicating that he left the stove on, or another of his table-spanning experiments has overwhelmed the kitchen yet again.

Mycroft and John are the only ones who truly know  _ him,  _ the real Sherlock Holmes behind the mask, the compassion buried underneath countless layers of wit and snark. The Sherlock Holmes that is capable of love. And while he’d rather actually strangle himself than admit that to his brother, the detective is tired of putting up those walls all the time around his blogger. So Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand in his own, pulling him down to sit on the bed beside him.

Neither of them said a word for a long while. Then, sighing softly, John brushed Sherlock’s hair out of his face. Feeling oddly comforted by the sensation, the detective closed his eyes in relaxation.

_ John. _

John hummed softly, his breathing steady, not recognising Sherlock’s attempt to grab his attention.

_ Johnnn.  _ This one was punctuated with a poke to the ribs.

“Hmm?”

_ Can you get me out of here? I’m terribly bored and the couch at home is far superior to this itchy bed.  _ Sherlock glanced up at his flatmate with pleading eyes.

“Sherlock, you need to recover, you still can’t speak-”

_ You’re a doctor. You can ensure that I’m well taken care of. _

Sherlock knew John wouldn’t be able to resist, and, sure enough, John said in resignation, “Right, yeah. I’ll see what I can do up at the desk.”

It wasn’t conventional by any stretch of the imagination to leave the hospital after only a day in there. But since when had the pair cared a bit about what was deemed conventional?

The detective already knows that he’s cleared to go home when John returns. (As if he’d take no for an answer, anyway.) The effect the army doctor has on people when he’s pulling rank is uncanny. Shivers ran down Sherlock’s spine again when he remembered John spelling out his full title.

_ All girls love a soldier,  _ he’d said.

_ It’s sailor,  _ John had corrected.

Sherlock stood by his original statement despite this.

_ Must I sign the papers?  _ His flatmate had returned to the room, holding a stack of discharge papers in his hand.

“No. And knowing you, you won’t.” He set them down on the table next to the bed. Sherlock was pleased with this.

_ The less people know I was hospitalised, the better. It’s a sign of weakness. _

“You absolute twat. Nobody gives a rat’s arse about whether or not you’ve been in the A&E!”

_ Some people do. _

“Get up,” John said, exasperated, hovering beside the bed. “We’re going back to Baker Street and putting you in some proper clothes.”

Merely nodding, Sherlock stood and took John’s arm, staggering until he found his footing. His flatmate catches him, propping him back up.  _ Thank you, John. _

The two were a sight to be seen, one flustered, holding up a limp Sherlock Holmes, and the other in a hospital gown, ligature mark burning angrily red around his neck, clinging to Dr. John Watson, striding down the hall and out the doors to catch a cab.

Neither of them gave one single fuck.

However, it did take them a good while to actually find a cab to take the both of them. It turned out that cabbies didn’t take kindly to taking murder victims on rides. Luckily, Sherlock and John climbed into the backseat of a willing car a few minutes later.

“Dreary day to be going places, innit?” the cabbie said in a mock-cheerful tone.

It was evident that Sherlock lacked the capability to respond, and even if he didn't, he wouldn’t have anyway, so John took the initiative. “Quite so, we’re just heading back to our flat.”

“Oh,” said the cabbie, “have a nice indoor day with your boyfriend, then. What’s that there, on his neck, is he alright?”

Mouth hanging open, John started to employ his sure-fire defense mechanism, the quick, “I’m not gay,” but stopped mid-sentence as he recalled the conversation from earlier. 

“I’m not gay.”

_ But we both know that’s not quite true. _

If Sherlock could acknowledge it, why couldn’t he? The detective in question watched the exchange with intrigue. After all these years, John had finally stopped protesting. Sherlock could kiss him on the mouth right there, in the back of the cab.

“He was strangled. I’m taking him home.” John had not made up a lie this time. His flatmate waited for the subtle recoiling from the cab driver, the awkward eye contact and sneaky glances at the injury. 

It didn’t come. 

Sherlock supposed this cabbie was one of the few nice, non-irritating ones.

“Early discharge from the A&E, is it? That’s why he can’t speak?”

“He doesn’t normally speak.”

“I see.”

Thankfully, for the sake of Sherlock’s sanity, the conversation was left at that. He’d known far too many talkative cabbies, and they always drove him up the wall. Now, not being able to respond in a way they’d understand, Sherlock was grateful more than ever that John retired the topic.

And thankfully, the pair were finally back at 221B Baker Street. Leaning on John’s shoulder, Sherlock climbed the 17 steps up to the sitting room and flopped down on the couch dramatically. John opted for his usual chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting his head on his fist. The whole ordeal had ended, it turned out, as it began, two men sat in the comfort of their flat.

“I’m going to put the kettle on,” John said, rising a few moments later. “Would you like tea?”

_ Yes. _

“Alright then.” He moved to the kitchen, where the latest of Sherlock’s experiments had yet to be put away, collecting dust and growing mold in the middle of the table. “And do something about this bloody thing!”

Sherlock smiled, nodding. It was good to be home. On his next case, he’d surely have to be more careful, avoid being put in such a precarious position…

But those were thoughts for another day. Right now, it was teatime, as John brought in the kettle after several minutes, pouring a cup for Sherlock and for himself, before settling back into his armchair. Right now, it was just like old times, when they were Sherlock and John, without any strings attached and no obstacles to dodge.

Right now, some things were stronger and deeper than expressions of affection and confessions of love.

One of those things that went deeper than anything else was Sherlock’s raspy voice, weak and thin and breaking as he spoke, saying, “Thank you.”

It was a thank-you for everything John had done for him, a thank-you for sticking by him no matter what. It was a thank-you for the memories they’d shared, the life-or-death situations they’d been in and lived to tell the tale.

Most of all, in that moment, it was a thank-you for the tea. 

Sherlock never thanked John for the tea.

John smiled and so did Sherlock. Of all the words Sherlock had spoken in the past few weeks, these two had to be John’s favorite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I been too sappy in my notes? It's a bad habit of mine, because whenever anyone gives me the slightest compliment I feel so appreciated and desperate to return the favor.
> 
> Guess what, I'm going to continue my sappiness!
> 
> Thank you all, you're wonderful and fantastic and kind and so considerate
> 
> I love y'all xx


	8. An Unconventional, Yet Quite Conventional Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies!! I'm sorry for taking a whole week with this, as it's only about 2000 words, but here is the last installment of this fic! I may write more in this universe, but this is the final official chapter.
> 
> An odd bit of trivia that you didn't ask for: this chapter is exactly 2222 words. I have been blessed by this knowledge.
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading, please leave kudos/comments, and enjoy the story!!

After the fact, there was a certain tranquility hanging in the air, as the detective and his blogger sat in silence back in their familiar, cluttered, wonderful flat, contemplating the mess they’d been through in the last week.

Sherlock’s throat had soothed itself, and he felt capable of speech again. As minutes passed, the pair basked in the peacefulness, the detective gradually easing away the stinging pains from the inside of his mouth and neck. The vertigo had faded, and he no longer felt dizzy or confused. Sherlock was glad for that; fully functional was the only way the detective knew how to exist.

Tea was a nice bonus, but neither party was thinking much about their beverages. The events of the previous days seemed to be catching up to Sherlock, flashing back, popping out of corners in his mind. It had started off such a simple case; it truly should have been open-and-shut, no questions asked. If he hadn’t bloody shut down…

The detective debated whether or not to explore that further. Why had his mind gone blank so suddenly? He suspected it had to do with the fact that John was  _ right there  _ and such a pleasant  _ distraction  _ from his work. Sherlock could stare at John Watson for hours and never be bored. 

_ This is what attraction is. No, more than that, this is what love is.  _ He could see that now, and more importantly, he could finally accept it. John had saved his life in countless ways because he loved Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock now understood the nuances of that and reciprocated, as well as the detective could, anyway.

However, deciding and coming to terms with the fact that someone loved him and he loved them too was far easier than actually letting the other person know.

Sherlock gazed at the wall across the room, where a paint-splattered yellow smiley face smirked back at him incessantly from behind the bullet holes. It was a taunt, a jibe, asking him why on Earth he hadn’t simply kissed John Watson square on the mouth.

The typically reserved, narcissistic detective knew how to kiss someone. He had plenty of experience from his various hook-ups throughout the years, all for cases, mind you. There was where the problem lay; Sherlock had no idea how to kiss someone like he loved them. In all his encounters with physical affection, it was strictly clinical and observatory from his point of view. Feelings were never at play, and they had no reason to be. Because before John, before Moriarty, before the Reichenbach and before Mary and Magnussen and Eurus and every misfortune and happy ending to befall him, every time John Watson saved his life and didn’t ask anything in return except his companionship, Sherlock had never learned to love.

They were home and they were safe, and there was no reason Sherlock couldn’t just walk over and pull John into a kiss. It would be that simple. Lord knows, he wanted it. He wanted the feeling of John’s lips on his own, dragging him in closer and closer until he could see the shocking blue of John’s eyes, and he’d close his own and lean in, ever so softly…

But the detective was still in a state of constant war with his head, second-guessing and second-second-guessing, countering every counter-argument and winding himself up to the point where he couldn’t even bring himself to speak. The agony of it all threatened to rip him apart from the inside.

In the end, it was John who broke the silence. Sherlock was thankful for that; the tranquility had shifted into something more awkward, becoming unbearable by the second.

“How did you do it, then? You must have solved it, for him to come after you.”

It was typical for John to ask this sort of question, and sometimes it became quite dull repeating himself until his blogger understood, but Sherlock remembered the way John’s eyes lit up in awe and disbelief, the unfiltered compliments that spilled from his mouth whenever the detective deduced, and started explaining anyway.

“It was really very simple. I was foolish not to see it before,” said Sherlock smoothly, in his business-like manner. “ The murderer was the teacher. He carried an expensive camera and was allowed access to the roof. Most hotels won’t look twice if they think you’re a professional photographer, they’ll let you anywhere you wish to go.

“The security cameras in the halls were fakes, the only real one was in the elevator. I noticed this when I went up to the top floor the first time, but I failed to connect the dots. Hence, the police had no damning footage from the hallway, and he would have been able to do the entire deed unseen. If he killed her near dusk or at night, he could justify the lighting for photographs, without running into many potential witnesses. Jason is 6’2”, so tall and strong enough to bring a body up to the roof and deposit her in the tank.”

“Hold on,” John interrupted. “How did he manage to get her up there without anyone suspecting a thing? Someone must have noticed a dead body.’

Sherlock didn’t feel the need to ridicule his flatmate in this instance. It seemed he was finally asking the right questions at a crime scene. “He passed McKenzie off as his equipment,” the detective explained. “She was already dead by that time, strangulated by one of his shoelaces. One shoe had old, worn laces, fraying and dirty, but the other was brand-new. It would not have been ideal for him to keep evidence on his person, so evidently he discarded the murder weapon and replaced it with a new one. That was his mistake: any part of clothing that doesn’t match the rest looks out of place, and therefore suspicious. 

“From there, the logical narrative is that he put her in a large bag and carried her to the roof, where she was stripped of her clothes and belongings and put in the water. Undoubtedly, that was a ritualistic thing, his trademark. And a warning. He must have killed her because she had inside information about him, so he murdered her somewhere where he thought it couldn’t be traced back to him. Out of the country is, in theory, the perfect place to do it, since you can hop on a plane and forget all about the incident. Unfortunately for Jason, they were stuck at the hotel while the situation was investigated. 

“Since he knew her personally and he was eager to further traumatise her, they had a past. A bad one. Most people have secrets, and keeping secrets as a professor can land you in very hot water. It must have been a big one, to kill a university girl simply to hide it. Only explanation of all of the facts.”

A stagnant pause. Looking slowly up at John, Sherlock searched his features for signs of approval. It pained him how dependent on his flatmate’s praise he’d become, but at the same time he craved it so bittersweetly.

“That was bloody brilliant,” John sighed. “I’ve run out of ways to describe your mind, Sherlock, it’s just wonderful.”

The detective was most certainly not blushing.  _ He wasn’t. _ In the off chance he was, he covered his face with his hand discreetly. 

But he  _ wasn’t blushing. _

“Thank you.” The cold, hard exterior resurfaced. He had to stop doing that, this was John. John knew the extent of his emotions, Sherlock didn’t have to keep up the facade any longer around him.

“I do wonder, however,” John started, “why didn’t you see it before? If it was so obvious, I mean.”

Sherlock’s brain malfunctioned. Scrabbling for an even somewhat believable excuse, his mind reeled, dashing at lightspeed.

He came up fruitless.

Instead of a proper answer, spoken with words, the detective made some indecipherable gestures and muttered a bit.

“I should text Lestrade and inform him that I solved this case.” Making a move for his mobile phone, Sherlock was stopped short by John’s hand laid gently across his own.

“Wait,” John said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Let me do something first.”

And before Sherlock quite knew what was happening, John was the one pulling him closer, gazing into his eyes before closing them tight, and his  _ lips were touching John’s…  _

_ Bloody hell John I can’t think John too much John love John what’s happening help John I’m drowning John save me John your lips John your eyes John I need you John I love you- _

His flatmate drew away infinitesimally, whispering two words against Sherlock’s mouth. “ _ Stop thinking.” _

That was all it took. Sherlock’s brain listened to John Watson, complied with his every request. White space was all that the detective could see or hear or sense, white space converging in and encapsulating him, white space around the corners of John’s face and white electric sparks where John’s skin touched his own.

This experience was decidedly different from Sherlock’s experiments for cases. Those were unsentimental, unattached, unfeeling, and disinterested. John’s mouth made him feel alive, excited him in ways all foreign to the world-renowned detective. Sherlock could feel all of John’s love, washing over him and keeping him safe. It rippled off his flatmate in waves, threatening to suffocate him.

The sheer energy of his first real kiss was indescribable. He had never been one for physical affection or dramatic declarations of love at all, but John was doing a damn good job convincing him that sometimes they were worth it. The whole room was spinning and dancing and laughing and Sherlock held onto John for dear life, as a buoy amid charging currents. White space infringed on his mind still, chasing away the rational thought and focusing solely on  _ John. _

Sherlock knew there was a blush on his face now, but he didn’t much care. Right now, he was kissing John Watson, and that was the only thing that mattered. There was no room for emotionless walls and buried feelings under layers of sociopathy. There was only room for John.

Of course, Lestrade had picked that moment specifically to text Sherlock about the case. The Detective Inspector had horrid timing when it came to his contacting of consulting detectives.

Pulling away from John after what felt like hours -- but was only five minutes -- Sherlock located his mobile phone in his jacket pocket and peered at it with a scowl.

“Lestrade wants details on the case.” The sneer could be heard in the detective’s voice.

“It can wait, can’t it?” asked John.

“I’m not sure-”

Sidling up to face Sherlock again, John whispered, “I think it can.” And that was all the incentive he needed; Sherlock tossed his phone aside, leaned in, and kissed John again desperately, doing his best to express ten years of repressed love into one kiss.

That was the difference between John and his experiments. The experiments and cases he’d been on were purely work. Sherlock was no stranger to affection or even sex, but the concept of being loved was the most foreign thing in the world to him. In John’s touch, John’s kiss, John’s every glance his direction, Sherlock could feel the love pouring off him.

He was vaguely aware of John leading him to his bedroom and peppering kisses down his neck, basking in John’s love. Sherlock had never realised how much he needed  _ this,  _ how much he needed his flatmate to kiss him and touch him and tell in physical way the extent of his love. The pair didn’t need to spell it out for each other; that was the standard, conventional way and neither one cared an awful lot about standard or conventional manners of doing things. It was enough to be here right now, in Sherlock’s bedroom, drowning in each other’s love.

Which made it sound like a cheesy 90’s romance flick. The awkward nerd gets kissed by the popular, stunning man. How cliche.

Sherlock found he didn’t particularly mind. This was a wonderful experience on all accounts, and the detective was damned if he wasn’t going to describe it in the most flattering and over-the-top way he could find.

Kissing John Watson back was quite possibly the best decision Sherlock had ever made. Lestrade and Mycroft and Molly and Donovan and Anderson, the whole of the Scotland Yard and every other bloody person on the planet could wait. The sun could stop going round the Earth (or was that wrong?) and the ocean waves could stop crashing against the sand, the only that mattered was the fact that Sherlock Holmes had John Watson in his arms.

The detective would continue to hold on to John for the rest of time. John allowed him to let his guard down, live a little, and love a little more. An angel sent down in a world where there were no angels, only those on the side of them.

As always, the detective was merely a planet amid a vast universe, but that was alright, because his flatmate and blogger, who’d become more important than himself, was more important than the sun and more so than the stars and more so than the universe itself.

He was simply John. And that was better than anything else this lifetime could provide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't understand how some authors write 200k works in just a few months. Writing 17k is exhausting enough. Not that I don't love it, but there were definitely times when I just wanted to hurl my laptop at the wall because I simply couldn't find anything interesting to write. Kudos to everyone else who can sit down and write that much!
> 
> Another big special thanks to PatPrecieux, I couldn't have finished this without you. Seriously, all your encouraging messages were sometimes the only thing keeping me writing when I wanted to abandon this. Hope you liked this final chapter!!
> 
> See you all whenever I start a new story. It may not be soon. I don't really know where I'm going after this.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, stay safe and stay strong, and I love y'all xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm getting a new update out ASAP. Love y'all xx


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